#like /you don’t owe anybody anything/ is only true to a certain extent

[chryblossomjjk]

random rant but i absolutely hate the rhetoric around friendships and relationships on the internet rn. it just seems like the emphasis is very much on what you get out of a relationship rather than a mutual exchange if that makes sense. if you’re in a long term relationship/friendship/whatever with somebody it literally cannot be 50/50 all the time. sometimes they need support and you will have to put in more effort. sometimes you need support and they will have to put in more effort.

[the-voltage-diaries]

Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου - Lucifer x Diavolo

AO3 Link

Το Βόρειο Αστέρι μου: Greek for ‘My Polar Star’

Word Count: 1859

A/N: I don’t know what this is. All I know is that @simpingw0lfi3​​​​​​​ refused to do it, so I did. Of course, please don’t expect this to be perfect because... it really isn’t. 

Vote of thanks: @akaiiro-yume​​​​​ for checking and correcting all the grammatical fuck ups I did, making sure I didn’t stop writing this halfway and going through any mental breakdown I might have had instead for me. And, of course, @some-ikemen-snob​​​​​ for making sure this SCREAMED Lucifer energy this way and that. only for now, but ily both.

Devildom 14th February, 20XX Saturday, 7:57 PM

Dear Diary,

      I suppose I've never written a journal entry such as this in the past, for I haven't found either the desire or the will to task myself with writing my thoughts down in a manner wherein I speak to an inanimate object. That said, I have been told writing is, in a manner of speaking, therapeutic, and I believe I could do with some of that right now. It would be false to assume I don’t still harbour any inhibitions towards using my time in this manner, especially when I'd much rather be by Diavolo’s side. The very same Diavolo who, as a matter of fact, happens to be the subject of this writing session today. Strangely enough, and if I recall correctly, he was also the one who introduced - which is putting it rather mildly - me to the “art” of journal entries. I admit, I haven’t given this activity the kind of gravity which was probably expected out of me, but then again, today is a little different from the rest. I'm not entirely certain as to where to begin, but I do believe I have been told in situations like these, one should do whatever... feels right.

      Diavolo is... well, where do I even begin? He is the future of Devildom, as a few might call it - myself included. While he does appear to be quite the cheerful and at times careless lord, it’d be a lie to deny that he is just as wise and compassionate underneath that wave of buoyancy radiating off of him. Honest to a fault, but with his moral compass always pointing towards the best interest of those around him. I’ll admit, sometimes it proves to be rather difficult to believe that he indeed is a demon. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to compare him to the Polaris considering he does quite radiate the charisma from himself, shining admirably amidst a dark sea of onlookers. While in name he rules over all the demons in the land of Devildom, the right set of eyes won’t take too long to deduce the eloquence with which his fingers reach out to the soul of every single resident of the land, holding them together better than gravity ever bound humans to the earth. 

      Saying that is all there is to him would be a lie whiter than the wet snow, making its way to the tips of my fingers and sliding off gently onto this page. That, of course, doesn’t mean describing how I feel towards him is no herculean task. There are some cases when a language -  no matter the plethora of vocabulary it offers - just isn’t sufficient enough, and this certainly is one of those cases. For the time being, let’s just owe my lack of articulacy to the bond of mutual respect and trust Diavolo and I share, built over centuries upon centuries, braving the ravages of time, and even perhaps the less than pleasing antics my brothers tend to pull. But while the impression the ruler of all demons and I tend to emit may seem to be distanced by a careful degree of professionalism, I don’t believe anybody knows that that might not be the case. Even Diavolo himself. Doesn’t come as a surprise, really, for they simply can’t know.

      Why do I believe that to not be the case, then? Well, I would wonder why I felt so strongly about it had I not known the reason myself. The very same reason which is now a secret so surreptitious that I can’t help but consider burning this piece of paper once I finish writing to ensure it is never revealed to another set of eyes. Such dastardly is the nature of this emotion, tricking one into its delusive warmth, encompassing them with the belief that nothing truly is impossible, that what they feel might just be true and meaningful enough to be returned by the other they feel for, only to cackle with glee and turn away when the reality doesn’t match the fantasy it was believed to turn out to be. The very same emotion which in layman’s terms is apparently called... love.

      I’m not entirely certain I understand the extent of its exquisite existence myself, to be truthful. All I know is no matter how intensely I try to shut the door on its escaping fumes, it turns futile the second I lay my eyes on the man in question. While the rest of the known universe sees an omnipotent leader binding everyone together, making them sing the same tune in harmony, I see what I can only consider an anchor, grounding me, making it so that I can’t ever fall into the abyss of the darkness that breathes inside of me and float away. He is the quintessence of the best of what the world has to offer, with his golden eyes sparkling like stardust, weaving their ever-lasting magic into the hearts of whoever they come across - be it human, or demon, or angel - wrapping them in their never-ending warmth, letting them sink into the depths of benevolence they promise. His hair are the cerise of a raging inferno, sheltering beneath their canopy a quick, sensible, erudite mind. His smile is but a warm culmination of everything optimistic and positive, like a flame inviting moths to it, reaching out to give their innermost yearnings a hand to grab on to and never let go. Simply divine. And this is where the paths diverge, I suppose.

      They see a to-be Demon King, I see Diavolo.

      But alas, love is a fickle mistress. Getting too lost in the charm of her alluring arms will only result in a doom of them wrapping around your neck, enticing, until you realise their hold is tightening. Not to hold on, but to suffocate. I might have gotten so lost in that fiery gaze that I didn’t notice it start to crawl along my skin, leaving a charred, burnt path in its wake. The very anchor which I believed to be the one to ground me and hold me close etched itself deeper into the oceanic floor of delirium, drowning me. The threads of his stardust wrapped themselves around me and clutched hard enough to strangle. Before I knew it, the symphony of something meaningful became the cacophony of a nightmare.

      This red thread strung through itself earlier today the series of events I’d rather forget. I’ve known how I feel towards Diavolo for a while now, and I had been searching for an opportunity to come clean and let him know about it for the last few days. Not to say I hadn’t gotten said opportunities at all, but one could owe it to me being too prideful to admit I was finally opening up to the idea of accepting feelings and... emotions. Around that time was when Solomon let slip a few details about the significance of Valentine’s day in the human world as an annual occurrence to celebrate romantic love, friendship, and admiration, and with enough persistence, Asmodeus managed to convince Diavolo to declare the day as an official holiday. Just a few hours ago I walked along the empty hallways to Diavolo’s office, knowing him, Barbatos and I to be the only ones in the building, still choosing work over any form of inactivity. By then, I had talked myself into finally telling the most powerful of all demons about the feelings I harboured towards him. I am a little embarrassed to admit that I was indeed a tad hopeful, wishing for the feelings to be returned. Once I reached the door to his private office, my hand settled above the smooth hardwood to give it a knock. And that’s when I noticed that the door was already slightly ajar. I heard a voice inside, other than Diavolo’s, and I took the liberty to glance inside, only for my hopes to come crashing down when the realisation struck me: I shouldn’t have done that.

      Inside his office, Diavolo sat in his seat with his mouth pressed against another, a hand trailing across the small face with dark green locks framing it with elegance while the other held on to the person’s waist, pulling him closer. My eyes widened when the smaller man of the two let out a muffled whimper, perched on Diavolo’s lap. Barbatos. I felt my heart squeeze out a pained croak at the sight, and even though every single nerve in my body begged me to move away and forget I ever saw anything, my legs didn’t move. They stayed glued to their spot on the floor even as I felt it crumble beneath my feet, just the way my eyes stayed on Diavolo. My lip trembled with a longing I never thought I’d experience when Barbatos intertwined his fingers with Diavolo’s, smiling into the kiss they shared, like the perfect harmony which was always meant to be. It was when Diavolo broke the kiss, eyes meeting the other’s and whispers of love and confessions floating across the room until they settled on my ears, that I finally felt the mask crack. The facade I had worked on for centuries to lay the foundation of crumbled as my fists clenched, letting myself have a moment of weakness when a lone tear of frustration, delay, anger, and self loathing dripped down my cheek. I looked up at the ceiling, a voiceless laugh tumbling across my lips at the cognisance that the Polaris I was reaching out for, shining proud in the middle of a dark, cloudless sky, was beyond my reach, and... never supposed to be mine. How far I could stretch, how willing were my fingers to make one last attempt to touch it’s light and bask in it - all of that didn’t matter anymore.

      I exhaled a shaky breath, blinking once as I tucked away whatever it is I was going to tell Diavolo in some corner of my mind, crushing the key with a hard snap of my fingers. My eyes found Barbatos again, glazing over with a heartfelt wish for him to find his happiness, at least. It was with one last aching smile towards Diavolo and a euphoric laugh spilling from Barbatos’ lips that I turned on my heel, shaking my head at the fate I was handed. Needless to say, I hold no malice towards either of them - they’re both precious to me, as much as I dislike admitting it.

      I believe I have shared more than what was required, and I shall burn this piece of paper lest anyone finds it. One might call it wishful thinking on my part, but I do pray that watching the last signs of anything I harbour towards the one who wasn’t meant to be mine from the start burn as the embers of the fire consume it whole makes me put a lid on my feelings once and for all, for they were never supposed matter. They weren’t supposed to exist to begin with.

      After all, only a prince deserves a fairy-tale with a happy ending, and I am no prince.

Lucifer.

[dreamonhunters]

YOU DON’T KNOW HOW TO LET GO

trigger warnings // medical procedures, blood & injury, alcohol mentions

my first @badthingshappenbingo​ fic!! hurt/comfort georgenap for the masses...you’re welcome

read it here on ao3 !

“You’re getting blood on my carpet,” George complains, but Sapnap doesn’t respond.

By now, this is standard procedure. Sapnap runs until there’s a bullet in his shoulder or a knife in his gut and by dusk he’s on George’s doorstep. There’s one reason for this. George is the man who can piece him back together and let him leave the next day pretending they never spoke. Rinse and repeat. It’s a fucked up little system they have, but it's enough.

(Besides, it’s not like Sapnap trusts anybody else with George’s level of medical proficiency to come within ten feet of him with a needle and thread.)

“‘m not,” Sapnap mutters, and George ignores him.

Crimson liquid runs down his face in rivulets from a jagged gash on his cheek, thin t-shirt clinging to the contours of his body. A fine sheen of sweat coats his skin. Sapnap can try to play it off as nothing all he likes, and George will gaze right through him.

“Come on,” he sighs, inspecting the sorry state of the man before him. Sapnap grumbles something under his breath. Probably cursing his name, knowing Sapnap, because there’s nothing he despises more than being turned into a charity case.

Maybe this is how things would’ve ended for George. Escaped in the nick of time, Dream always tells him, as George wraps thick bandages around his best friend’s bullet wounds. Right before he got in too deep, past the point of no return. You can only run from dead bodies and stolen identities for so long before they return to haunt you. Not like the skeletons in George’s closet don’t keep him up for endless nights, tossing and turning and staring at a ceiling he swears is painted with blood.

When he was eighteen and starting his first year at med school, George hadn’t expected much. A degree, a stable job at some local medical centre, maybe even a nice family to come home to every night. His idle daydreams quickly morph into blood covering his hands and desperately working to stitch up a gaping wound that’s bleeding far too fast.

Maybe those first three years of medical school were his greatest downfall. Too many people know his name now, too many to ever let him disappear off the radar without a word. Instead he lives in purgatory forever, eternally guilty by association.

He doesn’t charge Sapnap. It’s not like the man has much to begin with. Taking money from the guy seems needlessly cruel. Dream pays him enough to get by, even if it means living the shittest downtown apartment money can buy and living on microwaveable meals from the discount aisle.

They don't talk much about their pasts. George will never ask how Sapnap ended up like this, and in turn Sapnap will never tell. There’s no sense in trying to intrude where he isn’t welcome. A silent offer will always stand, of an ear to listen should Sapnap ever want it. He doesn’t. That’s fine.

Blood pools at Sapnap’s feet, seeping into the cream coloured carpet. That’ll be a bastard to clean, George notes idly. One arm loops around Sapnap’s waist, shoulder under his armpit, and George guides him to the bathroom. Bloodstained tiles are far easier to deal with, he decides.

A pained grunt escapes Sapnap as he collapses onto the toilet seat, but not before he’s caught a glimpse of himself in the cracked mirror and examined the damage through narrowed eyes. If he's still conscious at this point, George knows he’ll be fine, and it’s a simple matter of stitching him back together again. They’ve been here a thousand times before.

George moves on autopilot. An extensive medical kit is tucked into the back corner of his bathroom cabinet, an assortment of bottles and jars and boxes hiding it from plain view. George retrieves the plastic box with practised ease, rounded edges pressing into the delicate skin of his palms.

“What happened?” George asks, tiredness flooding his voice. Holds his hand out expectantly to Sapnap, waiting until he can feel the cold metallic bite of a switchblade resting there. The blade cuts through the cheap polyester of Sapnap’s shirt, the bloodied fabric falling to the ground beside him. The man inhales sharply at the sudden coldness, the fine hairs on his arms standing up straight.

“Nothin’,” Sapnap mutters, chocolate-coloured gaze fixed firmly on the tiles. Blood runs into the grout, staining it a murky red-brown.

George waits.

“Just some stupid fuckin’ gang kids.”

“You don’t have to fight everyone you ever meet,” George says matter-of-factly, inspecting the extent of Sapnap’s injuries. The worst of it seems to be a deep laceration in his torso, thank God. Everything else is superficial, by the looks of it.

“I don’t,” the man grumbles, a blatant lie. Otherwise he wouldn't be here  bleeding out on George’s bathroom floor every other week. Sometimes George considers having him schedule a regular appointment. “They woulda' killed me.”

Getting into an argument with Sapnap is futile, especially when he’s in such a foul mood. The man packs a solid punch, one that George has been on the receiving end of a good few times over the years. And so the Brit works in silence, wiping away dried blood with a soft cloth soaked in isopropyl alcohol. He’s used to the sting on antiseptics and the occasional hiss escaping whenever George runs over a deeper cut.

“Ow, fuck off,” Sapnap finally snaps, when George presses down a little too hard beside one of his wounds.

“I need to stitch this up,” George continues on, entirely ignoring Sapnap’s complaints. It’s far too deep to simply bandage up and forget about, as much as he's certain Sapnap would love him to.

George rocks back onto his haunches, digging through his medical kit once again. He’s prepared for a damn apocalypse, Sapnap had once commented. That’s probably true, George considers, when he glances down at the heavy box in front of him. It's practically brimming with thick bandages and foil packets of pills. Dream has powerful contacts, ones who can get George all the medical-grade supplies he could ever desire. Of course the man will take advantage of anything he can get his hands on.

It would appear he’s better prepared for an apocalypse where nobody gets seriously injured.

“I don’t have any lidocaine,” George mutters, more to himself than Sapnap. It’s not like he doesn’t know what that means - a whiskey-soaked rag between his teeth to bite down on when the pain gets too much, the burn of alcohol a pitiful distraction from the flaring agony in his side.

Sapnap groans, glaring daggers down at his friend. “You better be fuckin’ joking. How the fuck do you run out of lidocaine?” he snaps. George knows it’s the pain overwhelming his senses, turning him nasty - Sapnap can be quite the sweetheart when he wants to be. After all, nobody is forcing George to help him.

George doesn’t bother trying to respond. No response will be satisfactory, and quite honestly George can sympathise with him. There’s no joy in stitching somebody up while they writhe in agony beneath his hands, biting back their screams with a sodden cloth. Instead he pushes to his feet, brushing off his jeans, and offers Sapnap a weak smile.

“I’ll be back,” he promises, despite how pointless it is. Sapnap grunts unintelligibly in response.

George has never been a heavy drinker, despite the few bottles that line the back of a kitchen cabinet. Only a small collection of cheap spirits, but the lack of any mixers says a lot about their use.

He buys budget vodka, the type that tastes like a toxic cocktail of drain cleaner and nail polish remover. Dream likes it, shockingly. Only when it’s past midnight, after a job gone horrifically wrong, and the pair are sat under the flickering yellow light of his kitchen at an empty dining table. Dream spills his guts between swigs of poison while George nods sympathetically. His friend can drink it straight from the bottle without so much as a wince.

At least it saves on painkillers.

It’s also a natural antiseptic, if you’re desperate enough. George would know. He’s tried every last alternative to traditional medical supplies. The bottle clinks against others as he carefully manoeuvres it out of the cupboard, placing it on the floor beside him. Sapnap won’t want it - says he despises the taste of vodka, reminds him of a childhood he’s spent half his life running from.

A half empty bottle of whiskey stands in the right corner of his cabinet, obscured by the vodka moments ago. A thin layer of dust coats the glass. The honeyed liquid swishes as he pulls it out, the vodka replacing it. Sapnap’s personal preference. At least cheap whiskey doesn’t taste so foul.

He closes the cabinet with a soft click and gets to his feet.

Sapnap hasn’t moved, the blue light from his phone screen washing out his lightly tanned complexion. He stares blankly down at the device, not bothering to acknowledge George’s arrival. The pair don't speak until George snags a cloth from the box and uncaps the whiskey.

“You’re twenty this year,” George states, pouring whiskey on the fabric. It comes out too fast, soaking his hands and dripping all over the tiles.

“Yeah.”

“Don’t you wanna get your shit together by then?” he presses, handing Sapnap the dripping cloth. The man chooses not to answer.

George doesn’t press any further, instead busying himself with preparations. A pair of latex gloves cover his hands, fine suturing needles and a small pair of scissors are laid out on a sheet of thin plastic. His fingers are quick and nimble and he handles his tools with a  mesmerising ease.

“There’s more to life than this,” George comments after a short silence. Sapnap sits up straight as George approaches, stuffing the rag into his mouth and biting down hard. Metal pierces through skin, Sapnap howls through the fabric, and from there everything becomes a blur.

Throughout his fleeting time at medical school George’s professors had praised him for neat work. Dream pays him for the exact same thing. He loses himself in his work, hyperfocusing on the task at hand until it’s perfect. In those moments the external world simply does not exist and there is nothing but the flutter of his pulse and the uneven breathing of his patient beneath him.

Normally, Sapnap barely makes a sound when George stitches him up. Doesn’t even flinch. Makes George’s work a thousand times easier. There’s always a few colourful curses, of course, but that’s just part of the job.

This time is far different. Sapnap writhes beneath him, making it exceptionally difficult to tug together his raw, bloodstained flesh. George mutters to himself under his breath, reminding himself how to deal with this. It’s fine - he’s had jumpy patients before, and this is no different. Sapnap’s groans are stifled by the rag in his mouth, the alcohol burn offering little distraction from the white hot pain lancing through his torso.

Even though he cleaned the wound hardly twenty minutes ago, fresh blood makes the skin slippery. George’s work is messy, far from his usual standard of neat stitching, barely traceable unless you specifically search for the little metallic thread fusing skin back together. Sapnap is trembling. Tears run down the man’s face, dripping off his chin and onto George’s bloody hands.

Oh, the guilt. It’s not easy being the only medic in the city who didn’t buy their degree from some shady underground dealer in the backroom of a seedy downtown club. He doesn’t even have a degree. No, he has three years of medical training, approximately double what any other “field medic” he's seen around has. And yet he’s nowhere near even half qualified, thrown in over his head to save the lives of teenagers who can’t keep themselves out of trouble longer than a week and men who know nothing but a life of illegal warfare.

He may be helping Sapnap, sure. But the tear tracks that stain his face make it hard to believe that the work he does is any good. All it does is allow Sapnap to go another day. To get himself stabbed in a different place on a different day at a different time, and George is perfectly complicit in pretending he’s some saving grace for broken teens who want to play at being big boys.

George isn’t saving anyone.

Flashes of silver catch in the cool artificial lighting, buried neatly in tanned flesh. George rocks back onto his haunches, examines his work, and nods. His eyes are slightly red, wet with tears that were never his to cry.

“Let me bandage it,” he says quickly, before Sapnap has time to think of a snarky remark. It’s more protection than to stem any bleeding. Tomorrow morning, before the sun has even broken the horizon, Sapnap will be right back on the same streets that leave him a bloodied, broken mess at George’s feet. It’s like some kind of sick addiction.

“You’re so fuckin’ fussy,” Sapnap chides, but there’s no heat in his voice. Just exhaustion, plain and simple, with which George can sympathise. He doesn’t question the puffiness of George’s eyes. Doesn’t intrude where he knows he’s not welcome. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not chancing it,” George replies firmly. He’s already pulling a roll of gauzy bandages from the box, medical tape in his other hand. “You’ll pull them out, or sleep weird, or do something. I know what you’re like. Sapnap.”

Sapnap huffs irritably but he doesn’t argue any further. His back hits the cool tiled wall, and he retrieves his phone from beside him. He swipes his sleeve across his face roughly the moment George looks away. Thinks George won’t notice.

George is simply going through the motions. Shaking fingers wrap flimsy bandages around Sapnap’s torso, microporous tape holding the material in lace. It’s a distraction from his rapidly spiralling thoughts, to busy his hands with work he understands rather than leave himself alone with thoughts he doesn’t want to comprehend.

“Can I stay?” Sapnap asks, as George snips the last of the tape and smoothes it down against tanned skin. The sun is setting outside, orange and pink streaking the sky through the distorted bathroom window. Rarely does Sapnap ask the question - he waits for an invitation he can begrudgingly accept, muttering something about not needing charity handouts. George tends to tune that part out.

It takes George a moment to process the question, and even longer to take in the look in Sapnap’s eyes. It isn’t fear. Sapnap isn’t capable of fear, or so he likes to claim. Maybe something akin to anxiety. He’s seen that look before, reflected back at him in a grimy little mirror. George leans back, mismatched eyes meeting deep brown, and he nods silently. He isn’t quite sure he can form words without his entire life story spilling out, every anxiety and late night terror pouring from his lips and staining the already bloodied tiles. He’s trembling.

George packs his things away without a word, clearly finished. There is nothing more to say, and Sapnap does not push to make meaningless small talk.

Sapnap gets to his feet, a quiet hiss of pain escaping him as he jostles sore injuries. George doesn’t bother to acknowledge the man’s exit. He knows where to go - there’s a spare room at the end of the hallway to the left of George’s own bedroom. It’s one of those rooms that’s rarely ever empty, considering the volume of patients and friends that pass through George’s household on a near daily basis. Drawers are filled with random articles of clothing, varied in size, left by the room’s previous inhabitants and sometimes collected from charity shops by George. He likes to be prepared.

Two hours pass. George moves to the kitchen. Rummages through his freezer for the most appetising pre-packaged meal he owns. Maybe he’ll treat himself to heating it up in the oven, rather than blast it through the microwave for twenty minutes and try to ignore the vaguely plastic taste that ruins the whole idea of lasagna. He does have a guest, after all, and he uses the excuse of a stressful day to validate his feelings.

He doesn’t hear from Sapnap until he’s seated at the dining table, chin resting in one palm. His oven buzzes in the background, dim yellow light barely visible behind the blackened grease baked on to the glass door.

“Hey,” Sapnap’s voice cuts through his reverie, startling George. He jumps, turns, shoots the man an apologetic smile.

“Hey.”

Sapnap is wearing different clothes now - a soft. pale blue t-shirt, two sizes too big, and a pair of sweatpants George doesn’t remember buying. The blood is gone, the cut on his cheek nothing more than a scabby memory, and George can pretend that the outline of bandages beneath the thin fabric is something much more innocent.

“Are you hungry?” George asks, as though he hadn’t had the foresight to cook two meals.

“Yeah, yeah… You sure ya' don’t mind me staying?”

There’s concern in Sapnap’s eyes. His voice holds an unfamiliar weight, a genuineness that George sees far too little of. The pity Sapnap offers him makes George’s stomach twist, nauseatingly bitter and somehow filled with strange gratitude.

“It’s fine,” he answers, tongue thick in his mouth. “It’s carbonara. I hope that’s alright.”

“Yeah. Thanks, George.”

It will be. Sapnap isn’t picky - he’ll eat just about anything George places in front of him. Hell, it’ll probably be the best meal he eats all week. He takes a seat across from George, leans back in his chair so the front legs swing off the ground, and hums. Always hums the same little tune, one George never recognises.

“You’re twenty this year,” George repeats. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself of that fact, like he doesn’t quite believe it.

“Yeah,” Sapnap replies. “What about it?”

George lets out a soft sigh through his nose, fingers intertwined on the table. “Don't you want out?”

Sapnap frowns. “Uh, whaddya mean? Out?”

“Out of this. Do something with your life.”

It’s what George craves. Release, complete release, from his life of bullet wounds and bloodshed and constantly glancing over his shoulder. A life that slipped through his fingers before he quite realised what was happening, and now it’s nothing more than a fever dream. Maybe he can live vicariously through Sapnap, instead. That would be enough.

“I dunno,” Sapnap replies, the slightest hint of confusion lacing his tone. “Never really thought about it.”

“You should,” George says. There’s an edge to his voice, one of exhaustion and desperation. “While you still have time. I can help you.”

“I dropped outta' high school. Not like I can go anywhere without a diploma,” he points out bitterly.

George shakes his head, pushing away from the table to check on the floor. His chair scrapes harshly against the scratched wooden floor. “I can help you get your equivalency. There are options, Sapnap, and I know people with money.”

Sapnap scoffs, wordlessly. There’s no response to that, clearly, and George pities him. The man thinks there’s nothing more for him, no hope of a normal future. Whatever that means.

“Aren’t you tired?”

This is the most George has ever pushed. He toes a fine line between courtesy and concern, always too apprehensive to risk crossing it. Sapnap doesn’t say anything more than he needs to, and yet George finds himself craving more. To know the man, properly, to understand him.

“Yeah.”

The words are heavy and bitter, like a lead weight on Sapnap’s shoulders. Silently, George understands, but he cannot voice his thoughts. There are no words to describe that kind of burden.

“I can help you,” George repeats, voice hushed. It’s almost reverent, like the words he speaks are sacred and holy. He pleads for his freedom through Sapnap, a redemption that will never be his own. “I know people who can get you out. Please, Sapnap.”

Sapnap is silent. The hum of his oven fills the silence with white noise.

A heavy sigh. “I’ll think about it,” he relents.

They eat in silence. George cannot push Sapnap any further, not without striking a chord within himself that will regurgitate too many painful memories. Sapnap doesn’t have anything to say. The silence isn’t uncomfortable. A little tense, maybe, but hardly unbearable. Sapnap is standing before George has finished rinsing the little plastic containers their food came in.

“I'll think about it,” he repeats. There’s sadness in his eyes.

“Thank you,” George smiles, genuine.

Sapnap leaves without another word, and George hears the faint click of a door closing. That’s the last he hears of Sapnap for the rest of the evening.

He doesn’t sleep well that night. George’s mind races, but not with the same anxiety that normally occupies his sleepless nights. No, this is a new worry - how to save Sapnap from getting himself in too deep. There are a thousand different scenarios he can play out on his mind, different faces and voices occupying the early hours of the morning.

Why he’s so invested in the man is an entirely different scenario he can unpack at another time. Or never, if he’s being really honest with himself. He’s simply doing what's right, George tells himself, looking out for another person in a vulnerable position. That is as deep as it runs.

George is lying, and when he finally drifts into a dreamless sleep, his last thought is of himself, at the same age as Sapnap, with blood across his face and a knife in his hands. Waiting for a salvation that never came.

[mercuriallycooperative]

Holy toast it has been literally over two years and I was so certain I’d posted these! But they’ve just been sitting in the back of my draftbox for some reason, presumably because I didn’t get them done in order. Now, I am like two years behind on Steven Universe episodes, but before I get all caught up and decide whether or not reactions and rewatches are something I want to post, here before you is a blast from the past! By which I mean, my thoughts while rewatching/reacting to a Stevenbomb from two years ago. The below text remains completely unaltered from how it has been sitting, complete, in my draftbox for two years.

Day Three of the Stevennuke!

This one has some fun stuff in it, doesn’t it though?

Week 1/Episode 3 of Summer of Steven (Wednesday, July 20)

Too Short to Ride

1) Okay it had to be pointed out to me, but Peridot’s consistent “Wow, thanks” as a reaction to being given gifts, after Steven told her that’s how human-gift-giving-rituals work, is so precious.

2) Okay, so who else is majorly sympathetic to Peridot here? Most of us internet-folk, suddenly losing all the technology and access to media (including any familiar written works) to which we’ve become accustomed, we’d be in pretty dubious shape.

3) Peridot with a Twitter, a Tumblr, a Youtube account. Oh dear. (Anyone else notice some of the other icons on that tablet of hers? Peridot with Tinder, that’s a recipe for I don’t even know what. Although, the interesting point was made that, although it’s possible those were apps preloaded onto the tablet, it could mean that Greg was looking into, what, dating services?)

4) “I really like this. But it’s a shame it doesn’t come attached to your body...” Peridot, makeshift-smartwatch user.

5) And, what the hell anime/cartoons has Peridot been watching, to do that, that, transformation-sequence-sound-effect thing when displaying her velcro tablet-holder?

6) Peridot having to take the time to parse the phrase “hang out” is interesting- like, it raises the whole ‘what language do gems even speak on Homeworld and is there translation weirdness or what’ question.

7) Okay, the arrangement of that Funland sign weirds me out. Like, it’s a big arch, but it seems like it was drawn flush with the wall/booths behind it? And Steven, Peridot, and Amethyst didn’t have to go under it to enter at all? I may have just missed prior examples of how it was drawn, but it’s just kinda weird.

8) Okay, but actually, with that height-restriction sign, Peridot isn’t actually that short. Like, it looked very much like Mr. Smiley sort of, patted her head a little too hard when compressing her hair, because it looked like she was not standing at her full height. I dunno, how that scene was drawn also kinda just bugs me.

9) What got Steven’s last lifetime ban revoked?

10) Mr. Smiley needs some hired help. Preferably sooner than later, because having someone that sleep deprived watching over most of the dangerous rides at Funland is pretty not good.

11) “I’m not falling for that one again.” Do you mean people have tried to use the excuse of Onion setting the roller coaster on fire before?

12) Still paying off the last lawsuit might actually be the reason for the understaffing, actually.

13) “I also do not steal Steven’s clothes when he’s not looking.” Uh-huh. Sure you don’t.

14) “Um, excuse me, but you’re wrong.” Peridot didn’t need much in the way of social graces in any sense that resembles Earth-Western-Human back with Homeworld, did she.

15) I really like how Amethyst hears Peridot’s bitter talk about shapeshifting and it being an insult to your intended form, and then just is like, bro. Tell me the truth, now, something is up with you. Because yeah, actually, the deflecting thing is something they do have in common.

16) Why did Steven try to shapeshift a cat finger if he knew it would freak him out?

17) Manual activation of shapeshifting powers. That’s one of those ideas that could seem good at first glance, but is, in fact, less good. Peridot’s intermittent deadpan “Ow”s support this.

18) I can see where Peridot’s talk about being an Era II Peridot, and therefore somehow less-than could get to Amethyst, given the whole “overcooked runt” thing.

19) And like, she made a good point, at least about the ‘We don’t care about you because of who you could be, we care about you as you are’ thing.

20) That all being said, there were a few problematic points about what she said- not least of which, a few that were a little hypocritical. Remember all the way back in mid-season-1, where Amethyst was all, I-only-feel-how-I-want-to-feel? The extension of that was that other people couldn’t dictate how she felt- even if she was modulating her feelings with potentially unhealthy behaviour. But here we have Amethyst (giving advice she would have given herself, true), trying to tell Peridot how to feel, about herself and the things she’s lost or the things she’s not. Trying to say that how Peridot is feeling right now is incorrect. It’s done with the best of intentions, but it is still rather not okay.

21) Correspondingly, as well as it did end up turning out, what with Peridot finding out about her metalbending powers, it was super not okay for Amethyst to be trying to take that tablet away from Peridot. Like, on several levels. Like, on a surface level, there’s the fact that the tablet was a gift. And gifts mean things to folks, and even if maybe the gift itself isn’t being super good for a person, the emotion maybe attached to it is important.

Secondly, the tablet is Peridot’s. If you respect a person at all, you need to respect their stuff, their right to have stuff. Peridot’s not a prisoner, and she’s not a child even if she can act like one. Heck, with Steven as a point of comparison, we wouldn’t even expect anyone to be policing his possessions at all. (And on that, note, even a child should have the right to their own stuff, a right to some personal boundaries). Peridot came into alliance with the Crystal Gems with nothing of her own. Her tech was demolished or dropped into the ocean, and that’s really all she demonstrably held as her own. Her tape recorder is gone now after the attempt to patch up with Lapis. But we saw the extent of what she considered hers and of value when she was trying to find a gift for Lapis. She has Camp Pining Heart DVD’s and whatever she’s made recently of the barn. That tablet is like, one familiar thing, and one of a very few things she even owns. It’s not okay to try and take that away.

Thirdly, it’s also not up to Amethyst to determine what Peridot does and does not need to cope with the new turns her life has taken. It’s not up to anybody but Peridot- it’s not up to anyone but themself to know what they do and do not need for their mental wellbeing. Maybe they ought to have help now and again, maybe advice, maybe some Serious Discussions. But trying to run someone’s life for them under the assumption that that’s what’s best is not a thing that ought to be a thing.

And last (although this one is perhaps slightly less of a concern, and also I feel like I’ve forgotten a point), Amethyst is stronger than Peridot, almost certainly. We’ve seen Peridot is less strong than Steven, and I feel like we’ve seen in the past Amethyst is as strong as or stronger than Steven. More than this, as someone who’s been a Crystal Gem for so much longer than Peridot, it’s entirely possible that in Peridot’s mind, Amethyst is still in some level of a position of power over her. Like, obviously at this point Peridot is well trusted, after that business with the Cluster and Yellow Diamond. But It’s quite likely that in Peridot’s mind there’s the lingering fear of ‘If I make Garnet or Amethyst or Pearl angry at me they might throw me out I may lose their trust I may lose their friendship’. Whether it’s warranted or not, it’s not an unlikely train of thought, and while honestly I wouldn’t expect it necessarily to occur to Amethyst, the physical strength thing, I wouldn’t expect her to not notice. Peridot couldn’t have won that tug-of-war for the tablet, not if Amethyst was really as intent on taking it as it seemed- Peridot either doesn’t have or doesn’t know how to access (as the episode tells us) any or all of traditional gem powers, such as shapeshifting, that might have equalized her lack of physical strength. Amethyst was, in essence, acting on someone who couldn’t fight back. That whole scene, honestly, has some undertones of bullying in it.

Like again, it ended well enough. Peridot has metal powers. She won herself that alien toy. (But notice also, that Amethyst stopped trying to toss the tablet when Peridot demonstrated those new powers. If she really thought the tablet was that bad for her, then why did she stop? Or was that one moment of Peridot being happy with herself enough to convince Amethyst that it was all cool now? One way or another, I’m really not happen about Amethyst’s reasons regarding this. Even with the best intentions. And honestly, I get the impression that some of that was Amethyst losing her temper, more than anything else.) But still, there were some things. And I hope they’re at least a little addressed at some point- at the very least, as an extension of the question of Peridot’s limb enhancers and how Amethyst ‘lost’ them.

22) The shorty-squad thing at the end was pretty cool, though.

[rissinwonderlan]

Hi yes hello it is I!! Back at it again after what a year long hiatus?? Well buckle down folks and get the tissues is gonna be one hell of a wild ride.

Starting Over

Ch. 1.

“Beeep!!Beeeep!!” A car honked as the light turned green but Edd sat idle in the car not realizing the light had changed.

“Hey? Earth to Edd?? You gonna go or what?” Kevin waved his hand in front of the dorks face.

“Oh dear. My apologies I got lost in thought.” Edd blinking and pressed the gas.

“It’s alright babe, it happens. I just wanted that dickhead to stop honking at us. Impatient bastard.” Kevin’s short temper was about it get the better of him when Edd stopped him.

“Kev, you can’t let strangers get the better of you. Maybe he has somewhere important to be? You don’t know so just calm down. Okay?” Kevin took the words in and cooled off a little. He was about to say something when all of a sudden he heard tires squealing and the grinding of break pads.

“Shit!” He yelled moving to yank the steering wheel in Edds hands to the opposite direction when he heard a loud crash and everything went black.

...

“Ow.... oh my mother is not going to be happy about this....” Edd grabbed at his head as he become a little more conscious. It all happened so fast. Someone hit them. Them.... Edd shot up and looked around.

“Kev??? Kevin??!!! Where are you??? Oh god please be okay.” He searched frantically, but he couldn’t entirely concentrate. Blood was rushing to his head fast, as if he was upside down. It was at that moment he realized the car had flipped over.

“Is anybody alive in there?!” He heard a strange voice call. But the blood was rushing too fast, everything started to get cold and his vision blurred out until all he saw was pitch black.

...

“Please please please you have to tell me if he is okay! That’s my fiancé I need to know he is alright!” Kevin could hear a familiar voice screaming through a dark haze that was his mind. Slowly he begun to hear the beeps of machines, hospital machines.

“Ugh what the fuck?” He said hoarsely. ‘Goddamn throat is dry.’ He thought as he tried to sit up but was restrained by some wires and an I.V.

“Sir? Sir you have to take it easy! Do you know what’s going on? Are you aware of were you are?” A nurse quickly ran to his side, trying to push him back down onto the bed.

“Uh a hospital? What happened? Did I crash my bike or something?” Kevin was confused. He couldn’t really remember anything he didn’t know why he was here and come to think of it he didn’t even know what the date was.

“Sir let me grab your doctor and he can explain everything.” Kevin watched the nurse scurry out of the room. ‘Damn look at that ass and those hips....’

“Doctor? Mr. Barr is awake. He doesn’t remember what happened I’m afraid he might have amnesia can you assess him?” The nurse interrupted the doctor and Edds conversation.

“He’s awake?! Oh you have to let me see him!” Edd tried to push his way into the room but the doctor stopped him.

“Son, I have to examine him. I told you, he hit is head pretty bad and he also broke some bones. I need to learn the extent of his injuries, physically and mentally. Now please sit down and I’ll get you when I’m down.” The doctor calmly explained to Edd.

“Okay.” Edd reluctantly agreed and took a seat outside of Kevin’s room.

...

“Ow! Fuck doc! That shit hurts!” Kevin all but screamed through clenched teeth as the doctor pressed on his collarbone.

“Well from what I can feel and the pain your experience I can say you definitely have a fractured bone here. It’s not completely broken, which is good, but we will need to do some more X-rays. Now tell me, what do you remember from before the accident?” The doctor asked as he wrote some notes on a clipboard.

“Nothing. Well I remember taking my bike home after football practice but that’s it. Oh shit is my bike okay??? Dad will kill me if I wreck Gertrude!!!” Kevin was positive he’d be grounded for life.

“Son, do you know what the date is?” The doctor asked, still writing notes.

“Uhh I honesty can’t say?” Kevin said confused. Why would the date matter?

“Hmm well it’s March 2nd 2018.” The doctor informed him. Kevin’s eyes grew wide.

“Wh-what? So you’re saying I’ve been in like a coma for what three years?” Kevin was utterly confused at this point.

“No... you’ve only been in here a few days. You were in a car accident. Your fiancé was driving and a drunk driver lost control of their vehicle and hit you. You don’t remember any of that?” Kevins concentration on what the doc was telling him broke at the word fiancé. Who was his fiancé? It couldn’t be Stacy she annoyed the hell out of him. Sure he loved her and would never leave her but to propose? What was he thinking?

“Fiancé? Who?” Kevin asked in a questioning tone.

“I’ll go get him.” The doctor said with a sigh. Sometime introducing amnesia patients with loved ones helped jog their memory. ‘Him?’

As soon as the doctor opened the door, a certain beanie wearing dork rushed towards Kevin.

“Oh Kevin! I’m so happy you are okay! I’m so sorry I didn’t see the car I didn’t react in time! Please please forgive me!” Edd sobbed into Kevin’s arm, carful not to disturb any of the medical equipment.

“Double Dork? What are you doing here? Is Stacy out there? Is she okay? The doc said my fiancé or whatever was driving and we were hit.” Now Kevin was really confused. Why was Edd here?

The words sunk into Edd like a brick falling into the ocean. Kevin didn’t know who he was to him anymore. Tears started to form on the brim of his eyes.

“You don’t remember? This isn’t possible. It can’t be! Kevin I’m your fiancé! We’ve been together since the middle of senior year! I don’t understand.” Edd said the words, but he knew it had to be true. He hit his head and amnesia was pretty common in head injuries.

“What? What are you talking about? I’m not gay? And why would I be with a dork like you? This has to be a set up. Where’s Eddy? I’m sure he’s here hiding with a camera ready with some prank. Tell me where’s Stacy? She’s my girlfriend. That’s what I remember. Her. And. Me. Not me and you. Got Dee that’s just sick.” Kevin was appalled. Why would he be gay? He was a ladies man. He’d slept with all the cheerleaders and now- well before- he was dating the hottest one of the squad. Why would he give that up just for this dork? “Dude just get out of here.” Kevin said with hate in his voice. Tears streamed down Edds face but he nodded and walked out of the room.

[pertinax--loculos]

Character Study: Jay (2.1)

[Breaking the second part into two parts of its own, cuz I kinda wanna rework what I wrote for the last two. Additonally, small tweak to the Plan: I’m thinking I’ll probably drop one of the nine prompts I had for each character, to make it an even 4/4 split over the two parts (plus as I’ve been mulling it over it’s basically happened that way naturally anyway lol). CW for swearing, as ever.]

4. Rivals Jay’s position within the Association meant that he was indispensable enough to be able to freelance, at least to an extent. Of course there were jobs he’d never be able to accept – mostly those involving direct competitors – but it was a good enough side hustle, especially because the jobs rarely required more than his equivalent of a mean look. Easy money.

Of course, he was far from the only freelancer in town.

Which resulted in situations like these.

He’d slipped silently into the living room of the guy he was supposed to shake down – some argument, or maybe a debt, Jay was long past asking too many questions – and found a figure poised by the side of the front window. He was well enough concealed that Jay might not have noticed him if it wasn’t for the serendipitous passing of a car, headlights sweeping across the room and throwing the silhouette into sharp relief.

Jay stopped, arranged his face into an easy smirk. “Becker.”

The figure spun around and cursed, colourfully and at length. “Fucking hell,” he finished in a mutter. “How the hell do you always manage to get inside without using a fucking door?”

Jay shrugged as he slinked forward a step. “Trade secret.”

“Right.” Becker had mirrored his forward movement, sliding back a step to maintain the distance between them. He stopped in the slanting light from the street outside; it illuminated him well enough that Jay could see that while his body language remained relaxed, his pale eyes were alert. “So you wanna toss for it?”

Jay’s smirk widened.

He lost the coin toss, which wasn’t great for his reputation, but at least meant that his night was freed up. Plus he got to exit, loudly, through the front door, which was novel in and of itself.

Becker knew as well as he did that it wasn’t the end of it – Becker’s employer would run out of either money or caution sooner rather than later – but neither of them were invested in the tasks beyond the payout. And both of them knew Jay wasn’t one to leave a job unfinished.

But for tonight he’d just revel in the unexpected free time. He ducked into an alley a couple of blocks away, walking around halfway down before he leaned against the wall and fished out his cigarettes. This was territory disputed enough for it to be practically neutral; he wasn’t going to be disturbed by some random dealers.

He was on his third cigarette when he heard footsteps approach. Jay slitted his eyes open just far enough to confirm his suspicion before he tipped his head back against the wall.

Becker drew up a good ten feet away, propping his hip against the skeleton of a long burned-out car. “Got a spare?”

Jay tossed the cigarettes towards him without opening his eyes. “Lemme guess. Appropriately lauded, you truly do live up to your reputation, thank you so much for protecting me, I’m gonna pass your name around to all my friends?”

Becker chuckled around his cigarette. “Usual song and dance.” He made a slight clucking sound, and Jay glanced over to catch the packet as he threw it back. “How pissed d’you reckon they’d be if they found out their safety was predicated on a coin toss?”

“Probably not as pissed as the ones whose delivery of a message is predicated on the same,” Jay said, grinning at him.

Becker ashed his cigarette off to the side, his gaze turning shrewd. “How the hell do you explain to them that you couldn’t do what they asked?”

“What do you mean?”

“Johns.” Becker’s voice was dry. “You gotta know the kinda reputation you have. With a rep like that, I’d imagine all your prospective employers expect you to get the job done.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, letting his smile sharpen into more of a smirk. “Whatever are you talking about?”

“Oh, shut up.” Becker rolled his eyes. “You’re a fucking ghost, Johns. No signs of entry or exit, nothing broken, not so much as a hair out of place unless you want it that way. How do you do all that and then sell a failure to someone who’s paying you?”

“Ah, you gotta factor in failures,” Jay said, glancing down as he tapped the end of his cigarette. “It’s the only way to stop them from asking you to do the impossible. Plus,” – he looked back up to smirk at Becker again – “I gotta leave some work for the rest of you guys.”

Becker’s mouth quirked as he took a drag. “Naw, c’mon. I can get work on my own merits.”

“Only because I’m modulating my reputation,” Jay said gravely.

Becker snorted. “Maybe we should test your theory then. I could totally take you.”

“You fucking wish,” Jay retorted. “Apparently your recollection of our initial encounter has been altered by time. Do we need to refresh your memory?” He flicked his cigarette away and straightened; he didn’t miss the corresponding tension that lanced through Becker’s frame.

“Yeah, no,” he said, eyeing Jay carefully. “Two weeks in the hospital is not something I wanna repeat.”

“See? Not just a pretty face.” Jay flashed his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’d better get going. Got some stupid fucking rendezvous I gotta chaperone.”

Becker raised his eyebrows. “Off of Murphy’s? Two am?”

Jay huffed some air out his nose in a half-laugh as he started to turn away. “Guess I’ll see you there.”

“Better me than Wyatt.”

Jay glanced over his shoulder as he walked, his smile more genuine than he normally allowed. “Better you than anybody, really.”

“Don’t forget you still owe me a drink,” Becker called after him.

Jay laughed, loud and deliberate and a little too sincere. “Don’t forget you still owe me your life.”

Becker’s answering laugh trailed him out of the alley.

5. Skills Grant very nearly startled when Johns sauntered through the door less than an hour after he'd left. He just managed to conceal the reaction, spoke without looking up. "That was fast."

Johns's reply was haughty. "I told you it was a simple job."

Grant didn't bother hiding his response to that; he leaned back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers, and gave Johns an incredulous stare.

Johns met his gaze as he sauntered another couple of steps into the room, and Grant had to fight not to wince. The man carried himself with an arrogance that bordered on sickening, made worse by the fact it was entirely justified.

"The other... contractors I approached didn't seem to think it was so simple," Grant said, when Johns showed no signs of elaborating.

The corner of his mouth quirked up, the beginning of that signature smirk. "Should've approached me first."

"You're fucking expensive, Johns. I'm not gonna pay your rates if I can avoid it." Grant tried not acknowledge the fact he was lying; if half the stuff he'd heard about Jay Johns was true, he'd notice any deception. The only thing Grant really had going for him was that there was no reason for Johns to think he was anything but another client.

And that seemed to be working in his favour; Johns raised one shoulder, let it drop. "You get what you pay for."

"I can assume then that you have the item?"

Johns's eyes rolled upwards momentarily, before he stalked far enough forward to place a small box at the end of the table. Grant couldn't help himself tensing, and judging from the shape of Johns's smile, he didn't miss it.

"As promised," he drawled, entirely at ease. He twisted one hand almost idly, and a phone shimmered into being between his fingers. "Payment?"

"Will be wired when I confirm the authenticity," Grant said, pulling off a passably indifferent air.

The phone was replaced by a knife with incredible swiftness. Grant shifted just enough that he could stand without being impeded by the table.

"What." Johns's gaze was as flat as his voice.

"This is not some drug dealer spat," Grant said as evenly as he could. "An item like this requires verification. Surely you know that."

Somehow Johns managed to give the impression he was abruptly closer than he had been, even though Grant was certain he hadn't seen him move. He tried not to acknowledge the sudden thrum of his pulse in his ears.

"You'd better not try to screw me," Johns said, his voice dangerously pleasant.

"Please." Grant realised his pen had stilled; he resumed twirling it as he continued. "We're both professionals. You'll get your payment."

"Good." Johns stared at him for a long moment, and then turned and started for the door. He hesitated in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder. "Cuz I know where you live."

Grant had relaxed enough that he was able to snort dismissively. "I don't live here, Johns."

"Oh, I know." That damned smirk was back, wide enough to show a flash of teeth. "You live over on Monaro Drive. Lovely little bungalow. Your roses are doing real well this year."

Well that was fucking unnerving. Grant didn't have the presence of mind to hide his shock; there was no way -- no way -- Johns could possibly know that.

The fucker's smirk was broad enough to nearly be called a grin. "Hope I don't see you again, Grant." He winked, and then he was gone.

An embarrassingly long few minutes passed before Grant recovered enough to pull out his phone. The woman answered on the second ring.

"So?"

"Forty-three minutes," Grant said, leaning over to pull the box towards him. He cracked it open to peer at the contents, unnecessarily. "And Deidre? He fucking knows where I live."

There was a pause. Grant was vaguely gratified that that seemed to have thrown her as well.

"It's okay," she said finally. "It's not gonna be a problem for much longer."

"You'd better fucking hope so." Grant glanced towards the front door, and then down at the box again. "Regardless, let me know when they've got him in custody."

"You wanna make contact?"

"Fuck no." Three different security systems, seven guards, lead-lined vault. It'll take a savant to do this in less than ninety minutes. Unless he can walk through walls. "But I think I'm gonna stay in a hotel until then."

[tellytantra]

One more. Just one more and then she would be done. Prerna Sharma was at the Basu mansion, going through what seemed like a million reports on her laptop to check for any drafting errors, a work her dear Kaku Babu, her Sir now, had put her to. The work took up almost all of her day and she ended up having no lunch, something she cautiously avoided telling her Kaka Babu when he called to check up on her. It was nearing five in the evening and every muscle in Prerna's body begged her to just collapse into a couch and put an end to the day's work. Her shoulder's ached with all the typing that she had been doing. But there was one last report that she had to go through before she could do that. Do it, Prerna Sharma, its just one more, she cajoled herself as she straightened up and pushed up the glasses that were precariously perched on her nose. Doing this work was absolutely essential to her. Kaka Babu had so trustingly employed her to do this work and she made every single effort to live upto the trust he had in her. But that wasn't the only thing. She worked so hard so she could pay the lawyer. The lawyer that she hired to fight Shivani's case in the court. Ishaan Khanna was a very renowned advocate and absolutely deserving of the name he had. It was when Prerna was clutching every last strand to find a  good lawyer for Shivani that she ran into Ishaan. Luck favoured her and Ishaan immediately got on board to help her. She discovered later that Ishaan was her schoolmate through classes 4th to 8th and was delighted to have met him after so long. Ishaan was an observant and placid person. He hardly ever got anxious or excited nor emotional when working. Prerna could see that he was a great lawyer and felt positive they would make a good case. When he wasn't working though, Ishaan was very good company. He was humourous, lively and very easy going. Prerna was relived she found Ishaan. Or her life would have been a complete mess, courtesy a certain Mr. Anurag Basu. Having had taken up the work of Moloy Basu's Personal Secretary, it was quite inevitable that she would run into Anurag Basu quite often. And that meant, she would be subjecting her poor heart to continuous disappointment and ache. She had pretty solid feelings for Anurag which she was sure were not ephemeral. Anurag on the other hand was back with his ex-girlfriend, whom he seemed to actually like. To keep her sanity intact, Prerna indulged herself in work. She arrived early in the morning went straight to the study, worked till night and went back home. She made a conscious effort to not run into anybody except Kaka Babu. She wanted to avoid Anurag for obvious reasons. Well as for Nivedita and Mohini, nobody in their right minds would WANT to run into them. Prerna missed Anurag. Big time. He was one of her best friends and she missed having him around. They talked though. But very few times. The few times he was home. Prerna ensured the conversations didn't go beyond general exchanges. And as soon as she started to feel Anurag would venture into the topic of her avoiding him, she would make up some excuse and get back to work. What with the first hearing of the case nearing, Prerna also had to pay Ishaan a lot of visits along with Shivani. All in all, her days were very demanding. Prerna was immersed in all kinds of thoughts, when her reverie was broken by her phone ringing. ______________ Anurag was passing by the study when he decided he could allow himself one peek at Prerna. And maybe have a conversation even if she wasn't caught up with work. Because all his best friend Prerna Sharma did these days was work. She hardly got any time to talk to him. It bothered him to no lengths. Sure, he would love her to succeed in her life and be the best at her work, but he didn't imagine that it would mean him and her spending such less time with each other And not just that. The few times that Anurag did manage to catch Prerna free, she seemed aloof and distant. She talked very little. Only about work and Shivani's case.     And when she spoke about Shivani's case, she mentioned Ishaan Khanna. A few million times. Or so it seemed to him. Anurag hated him. For no apparent reason. Anurag was hardly the kind of person who would hate somebody without even knowing anything about them. Ishaan Khanna seemed to be an exception. He was about to find Prerna a good lawyer when one fine day she just dropped by to inform him that she had already found one. He was happy for her. Not for himself. All Prerna did when she talked to him was speak about Ishaan. Of how focused he is, how intelligent, how genuine and empathetic and on and on. It irked Anurag so much. Okay fine. It made him jealous. Prerna was HIS best friend. He wanted her to be with him. Spend time with him. Okay, he was being very stupid. She only spent time with 'the guy he won't talk about' for Shivani's case. Had things been different he wouldn't have bothered. But things were bad. So bad. Prerna avoided him like plague. Consciously. And she was so distant. He knew not why. And add to this already plumetting friendship of theirs 'the other guy', he felt pretty gloomy. He stopped by the study. He decided he would knock and get in when the door opened and out came Prerna Sharma. The movement was quite obviously unanticipated on either's part, effect being that Prerna collided into Anurag. And fell down. Splendidly on her bum.4 "Ow," she whined, rubbing her aching bum. Prerna threw Anurag her filthiest glare, because he was laughing clutching his stomach. She rolled her eyes at his exaggerated laughing. He extented her a hand which she ignored and got up as gracefully as the situation allowed her to. Anurag put an end to his ridiculously prolonged laughter after Prerna gave him a scathing look.1 He looked at her flushed face, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as she tried to smoothen her crumpled Kurti. It was when a few loose stands fell out of the messy bun of her hair that he realised she looks so much more beautiful when her hair was down. Prerna looked up at Anurag to see him staring at her observantly. Her feeble heart, so full of mushy feelings, gave a  jolt. He slowly and with deliberation took a step forward. He raised his hand to the back of her head and removed the clutch that was securing her hair. Prerna's heart thudded so loud, she was scared he would hear her. "Tum khule baalon mein bahaut achi lagte ho," he said, his voice sounding strained. It did strange things to her senses. Anurag didn't drop his hand though. He let her hair sift through his fingers repeatedly, his motions on autopilot, his eyes staring at her raptly, as Prerna stood frozen, her mouth open, her senses haywire. "Kaha jaa rahi thi?" He asked her, now proceeding to tuck her hair behind her ears, his finger tips grazing the tips. "Huh?" Prerna muttered, intelligently. "Kaam se fursat lekar jaa kaha rahi ho?" Anurag asked. That was when Prerna snapped out of her daze and moved away as if electrified. "I was actually going down to ask Kaka Babu if it was okay for Ishaan to come meet me here. He wants to discuss something." Oh.   Ishaan it was then, that made her stop her work. Anurag looked like Diwali was cancelled. He nodded his head gravely his face assuming an utterly unpleasant expression. "He is coming here then?" "Yeah" Another nod. A pregnant pause. "You want to come down and help as well?" Prerna said, before she could hold her tongue. This was the affect of being around Anurag. The more she talked to him, the more she felt like having him around. Before she could make an excuse on his behalf, Anurag nodded enthusiastically. "I would love to!" He said, smiling at her radiantly. Prerna smiled back meekly, weighing the consequences of her stupidity. Probably spending a lot of good time now and then going home and crying buckets, she thought miserably. They went down. _______________ Anurag was a man of his words. And true to his nature, he kept his word and  still hated Ishaan. Nothing changed after he met him.2 Anurag found Ishaan way too perfect for his liking. He was good humoured, easy to speak to and was amazing at his what he did, Anurag admitted grudgingly. How can someone be so irritatingly perfect, Anurag fussed, even as he sulked. Prerna was now laughing at some joke Mr.Perect had cracked. Perfect.2 God, he sounded nuts. "Don't you ever worry, Prerna, I have got your back," Ishaan promised her, giving her hand a little squeeze. Okay. "You should always keep smiling," he appealed to her sincerely. Diabetic sweet.2 "You look beautiful when you smile!" Wait. Why the hell was he flirting with her?4 Anurag shuffled impatiently in his chair, racking his brains for a change of topic. Prerna smiled politely and nodded at Ishaan. "Have you eaten anything?" Ishaan inquired. The nerve of him! Did he think they didn't serve food at his home or what?2 "No," Prerna admitted in a small voice. Anurag whipped his head around to look at her mortified. "Why?" He demanded, his voice giving away his hurt. "I was so caught up in work I didnt have time to," Prerna said, apologetically. Anurag was about to give her a big sermon for not having lunched when Ishaan beat him to it. Ishaan then suggested they went out to eat something because he was feeling hungry as well. And invited Anurag along. "I will come," Anurag said, giving 'the other guy' a stiff smile.2 He brought his car out to drive them to the nearest restaurant. Prerna was making her way to the front seat when Mr.Perfect came out of nowhere and slipped into the seat. This guy was the limit! Anurag gave his hand break such a hard tug, he was surprised it didn't break and come apart into hsi hand. Ishaan talked non stop all the way to the restaurant profusely complimenting Prerna for even the most mundane things. The guy was clearly smitten by her. And Anurag didn't like it one bit.3   At the restaurant, before Mr.Perfect could come up with anymore stunts, Anurag sidled after Prerna next to her seat, leaving Ishaan no choice but to sit in the opposite chair. Their food arrived and they started eating. If Anurag hadn't been so irritated by the presence of 'the undesired', he would have noticed how Prerna became all dazed and confused each time his elbow touched her while eating. Anurag sat so close it was hard to make any movement without touching him. It was when Prerna finally took notice of what was in her plate, that she noticed a strand of hair in her rice. "Ew," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Go get the dish changed," Ishaan suggested which obviously welcomed a disgruntled look from Anurag. Prerna left to get her dish exchanged and also give the concerned people an earful. "Charming girl, isn't she?" Ishaan began, cheerfully. "Of course," Anurag said, giving Ishaan a cold glare. "How long have you known her for?" "Quite long! We have been friends since childhood." Anurag said, smiling indulgently. "That's strange. I have been in Prerna's grade for four years, she never mentioned you."1 Anurag gritted his teeth so hard, it was a wonder they didn't break. "Prerna likes to keep her private life private. She has been like that since forever," Anurag explained, distate writ all our his face.1 "Oh," Ishaan subsided. Pause. "Sorry if it seems intruding, but are you guys, close?" Ishaan asked hesitantly. "Pretty close. Yes." "As in- are you?" "Yes, I am Prerna's boyfriend," Anurag said, with a slight pride emanating in his voice.1 Oh god. He said it. The look on Ishaan's face was priceless. Anurag smirked contently at Ishaan's heart shattering expression. He never felt so elated doing a wrong thing.1 He had no idea why he did what he did. But he hated the idea of Prerna being romantically involved with Ishaan. Now he came to think of it, he didn't like the idea her being romantically involved with anyone at all. Shit. This was crazy. He can't decide for her. What if she actually liked Ishaan? The very thought gripped his senses in fear. No. No. No. It can't be. It didn't seem like she did. But he still had no right to do what he did. There would be consequences. Bad ones. Prerna would yell at him. Guaranteed. But he would put up with all of that later.2 But right now, he was feeling so happy. Now he looked like Christmas arrived early. He couldn't stop grinning and passing Ishaan all dishes, insisting he ate more.1 When Prerna returned, he gave her a breath taking smile and even served her some of his Roti with his own hands. When it was time to go back, Ishaan calmly slipped into the back seat. Prerna slid into the front, looking utterly confused. They two men behaved the exact opposite way the did in the morning. Ishaan was sulky and Anurag cheery. Anurag dropped Ishaan off and offered him a big smile. He stopped his car infront of Prerna's house, humming to himself. "Why are you so happy?" Prerna asked dubiously. "You will find out soon and maybe I won't be as happy after that." Anurag admitted.1 Prerna who couldn't make head or tail of this cryptic remark bid him goodbye and stepped out of the car. She was about to get into her house when she felt a tap on her back.+ She turned around to see Anurag grinning at her. Before she could process anything, he gently, pulled her head towards his face and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. "Sorry, okay?" He said still grinning. "I dunno why I did what I did. But I also don't think I regret it." Saying so he sped off in his car, leaving Prerna behind utterly bewildered and totally dazed. Anurag Basu would be the death of her one day.

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